All Silence
by thelarchives
Summary: World War II AU, GerIta, there will be FLUFF and NAUGHTY WORDS (also maybe smut but probably not). Ludwig flees Germany to Britain, while Feliciano and Lovino are there surviving the blitz... *characters belong to Himaruya Hidekaz
1. Prologue

Early fall, 1939—Somewhere in Italy

Feliciano could feel the sunrise gliding up his eyelids. He rolled over, once, twice, fell out of bed and hit the floor (he probably should have expected that), and finally opened his eyes. It was a rather-warm-for-September Saturday's morning and the windows of his bedroom were open. He clambered to his feet from the pale, dull wood floor, and felt the air knotting around the back of his legs. Lovino would be awake by now.

He traipsed his way downstairs and to the kitchen, surprised that Grandpa, Lovino, and their neighbor Antonio were all conversing in harsh whispers at the table. Muttered "Invasion's" and "Hitler's" and "Flee's". This was not a good day; the fact lay around the room like the white coating on a sick man's tongue.

He only heard one word more before they notice him standing there: "War."

Early fall, 1939—Berlin

Ludwig awoke to a very loud albino man shouting in his ear.

"LUDWIG LUDWIG LUDWIG" he squawked, prodding at the younger's face and exiting the little yellow bird in the airy cage by the window. The air was tingly and cold, his bed soft and hot from his first full night's sleep in a long time. Ludwig groaned and sat up in bed, raising an eyebrow at his brother's (strangely, not smiling) face.

"Ludwig…." The man (Gilbert) began carefully, "Ludwig, we've just entered a war."

The Second World War was breaking just over the horizon.


	2. Chapter 1

Ludwig could not believe his eyes.

There, right in his cold, sticky hands, a crisp sheet of paper, an otherwise insignificant piece of litter. "VOLKSSTRUM (home guard)" was printed in barely crackled letters (like the printers had boiled their ink before laying it down) and the document was wafer thin; waxy. The draft. The German Military draft. His and Gilbert's names were screaming up at him, bolded and itching and they sent a strange sort of banging tang through his chest. Incredible warnings rifled down his brain.

Ludwig felt for Germany. He did most of the time, no matter how much; he always had the country on his mind. Its people were in shams after the Great War, new leadership was… risky, and the country was poor and forgotten. Ludwig was very, very devoted to Germany, and loved his country dearly (no matter how much it bothered him to do so).

Still, he could not help feeling like he and Gilbert had just received their personal invitation to hell.

"Gilbert…" he croaked uncertainly, his brother clutching his shoulder, his eyes hard.

"Ludwig…you have to go. You can't enlist and die like Dad or anything, right?" he laughed uncertainly, "I'll go for the both of us, I'm awesome enough. You can go to London. Take the train…" and thus Gilbert continued on, filling the strange melancholic silence with meaningless sentences.

Ludwig, for one of the first times in his life, felt very unsure. This was his brother, of course, he should go with him, but Gilbert was strong. Gilbert had fought in the Great War before this one. Gilbert could survive, and Ludwig couldn't. Could he live with himself if he let Gilbert go for both of them?

…Could Gilbert live with himself if Ludwig enlisted at all?

It was times like these when Ludwig felt the least for Germany.

***A week or so later***

The steam-train gleamed coal black in coffee thin sunlight. The air smelled like rust and the ground was dusty—was this it? Would this be their final goodbye? Ludwig clenched his fists in his old brown overcoat he looked through the crowd. He couldn't say goodbye to Gilbert! It was like kneeling by his deathbed. What if he was deployed to fight on the front lines? What would he do then?

The worst feeling of all was that he might never even know.

Would he stay in London forever, after years finally accepting that he would never again see his brother?

Ludwig shoved the offending thoughts from his mind as he turned to face Gilbert, memorizing his face, his pale face. He tried to remember the way he petted his little canary. The way he brought Ludwig up as his own. And he tried not to think of what he'd look like when he was dead.

No words. Ludwig had no words but "Bruder…". He could not say goodbye, not to the only person he had ever really known. All he could do was hug him (his usual strength strangely lost) and hope, hope so dearly it hurt him, that he would see him once more.

Gilbert could do even less, his easy façade slightly rumpled, his face a laughing bag over a scared little boy's head.

And thus, with a last glimpse of alabaster, aching eyes, he forced himself to turn and ignore the curious stinging in his eyes. He was on his way away from home—probably for forever. Now he had to turn his head. Simple commands, simple commands, don't do too much because too much is nothing at all. The ground was grey like a summer morning, the grass whispered out of the ground. Pale yellow stalks as willowy and blonde as Ludwig's hair. The train windows were as wide open as his heart felt hollow. This was a bleeding fork in the road, a sort of amputation, if you will. Whether he liked it or not, Ludwig would have to live. Somewhere, somehow, without a reason or a word to spare, there was a chance that they would both survive this war.


	3. Chapter 2

Feliciano had spent the past few days trying to gather as much as he could on what was going on. From what he had heard, basically, Germany took Poland and France and England were like, "No" and they declared war. It was getting a little scary when Mussolini, who had been around for as long as Feli could remember, seemed to be taking a liking to the strange, large, scary nation that was so intent on conquering. The world was on an edge, rocking back and forth on the bayonet blade of Germany, or whatever grotesque monster Germany had become.

They had to leave. He had been expecting this. A sort of crawling was rooting around in the back of his mind. Even so, he was not ready when Grandpa brought him, Lovino, and Antonio together to talk on a still Wednesday afternoon. The family flower shop had just closed, and they sat in the shaded place, dead petals crunching sparsely. Grandpa had told them about London, about how Germans might come here, about how he had friends in England. Grandpa had to stay, he could only afford Feliciano and Lovino, and Antonio was paying for himself. They could write letters to Grandpa, but that was it.

No matter where they went, it would be safer than here.

As guilty as it made him feel, Feliciano could hardly help but agree.

The very next day, Feliciano packed his little life into a smaller bag.

Tears would not leave his eyes as he weakly hugged Grandpa Roma goodbye.

It was warm out that day, the sky was overcast. The world seemed clogged with something smoky and sticky. Maybe the sun wasn't even out behind the clouds, you couldn't have told.

"You boys be good- don't get into trouble-" and Grandpa went on, listing the address of where they would stay, even though they already had them on paper.

"Do we even know these people?" Lovino asked.

"Of _course _we do… I remember the very first time me and Francis met… what a strange man…" and he rambled on, somehow depicting a story of something to do with a chick.

Feli did all he could to fill the silence as they made their way to the car that had been set up for them. It was still too quiet.

Romano pulled Feliciano through the wind as they scrambled through the outskirts of London. Antonio walked at their heels. They weren't expecting this much discord and confusion in such a place. The streets were in disarray, people hurried from place to place, struggling with children and bags. The world seemed on the brink of something—quiet, tense, and dark.

As the three made it to a one Francis Bonnefoy's home, Antonio and Feliciano tried to talk. Nobody was really listening: they rambled on as Romano sulked. ("They don't even have pizza here, I bet. Those posh bastards can't make good food at all!") The sun was already bobbing on the horizon, like a little custard or something. Or maybe Feliciano was just really hungry.

"Loviiiii! Will you share a room with me? I wonder if they have tomatoes here…"

"Shut up, asshole. I wouldn't share a room with you if you were the last person on earth."

"But you promised- remember- when I was ten- you said you'd live with me when we grew up-"

"We might not even have separate rooms, bastard. If we don't I'm walking out of this place."

Feliciano knew Lovino was just on edge, but that was pretty mean.

Well, if this was Mr. Bonnefoy's house, it was pretty strange.

…Didn't he live alone? It just didn't seem natural for his place to be so… loud.

Loud and bright. Was he having a party or something? Lovino gave an aggravated sigh and stomped up the stairs. Feliciano hid behind Antonio as they approached the door. It appeared to be a rather corroded shade of army-green but Feliciano couldn't really tell in the darkening twilight. Lovino began violently knocking. Feliciano was afraid the door's paint would chip off. With just the third rap of Lovino's knuckles, the door opened and golden light shafted itself across the travelers.

"Bonjour! You are- oh, Antonio! Mon amis! You're here already? Come inside, it's freezing!" a tall, blonde, well-dressed man spoke with a thick French accent, holding open the door. His face was chiseled, almost feminine, and he smelled strongly of roses. He soon noticed Feliciano and Lovino, and his eyes widened as he pushed his long, wispy bangs out of his face. "Well, bon-JOUR!" He winked peevishly at them. "I am Francis Bonnefoy, but you can call me Francis."

"You listen here, bastard, I don't know what you're playing at and-"

"Ve~ Lovino, be polite!"

"Ma petit chou, your rooms are down this hall- third door to the left, and the second to the right. Somebody will have to share, but this won't be a problem, non? Non." Francis finished speaking and shoved them down the hall. Lovino and Feliciano walked down the pale, dim length of it as Francis and Antonio began talking loudly. Lovino looked even more annoyed than usual, for some reason.

"Lovino, what's wrong?" Feliciano asked, tilting his head and punching his brother softly on the shoulder.

"Nothing's wrong, idiota. That Francis guy is just weird. What if he, like, does something weird? This is weird. Shut up, anyway." Lovino turned his head away sharply.

"Oh-kay, Lovi! Don't worry; we'll be fine. He's Grandpa's friend!"

"I sure hope so, idiota."

They trailed off to separate rooms. Feliciano found himself in a dusty, airy area full of empty shelves on the walls and possessing a single bed. He set his things upon this and sat next to them. Three questions were occurring to Feliciano right now:

How did Francis and Antonio know each other?

What was going to happen to Grandpa if things were bad enough for them to be sent away?

And where was Antonio going to stay?


	4. Chapter 3

Ludwig tore his eyes from the stagnant sky. The train was skidding, stopping, screeching to a halt, and the tan ground stopped blurring. The tracks here were rusty, most likely from the constant rain and lazy maintenance workers. His vision blurred slightly, but cleared with the silt and stillness of the air. Get off the train, Ludwig. Jump. It's still.

It took the jolt of the train leaving to remind him to jump. This numbness was inescapable and raw; it shook him to the bones and left him rubber. His only family. Gone. This fact sat on him like bitter caramel and snaked under his skin like a tick.

He hardly noticed himself walking through the station, working his way through the crowd, and suddenly found himself on the street. Focus, Ludwig. Focus on being alive. He shakily found the paper slapped address of this tenement.

The air was a bit fresher with each step away from his old life. Maybe it hurt, but so did washing the blood from a wound. He had to sit, and stay, and survive, and believe. He had to believe that Gilbert would survive too.

He walked through the bustling center of London, the smell and noise slapping him in the face. Ludwig was so used to dank hills and mountains, the towns sleepy and forgotten. Here, everything was bright and scary. He kept his head down as clutched his coat and bag tightly.

He rounded a corner into a less crowded street. Number 45, Switching lane—there it was. A tall, rickety house. It was cramped against the surrounding homes which was really rather strange, and it was painted white. He walked up the neatly built steps and placed the key he had received in the mail in the lock. He pushed the heavy door open.

Well, it was really empty, but it was good. Ludwig exhaled deeply and turned around. He set his bag on the floor and turned around. Surely there would be furniture in the other rooms? Ludwig heard his footsteps pound the floor as he made his way to the doorway. Thankfully, there was a bed and some other furnishings all piled up in the other room. He set away his fears for then, and began working on his new home.


End file.
